


No Justice (But What We Make)

by Holdt



Category: DC Extended Universe
Genre: Angst, Codependency, Gang Rape, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Physical Abuse, Psychological Horror, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Telepathy, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-11-14 04:13:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18045242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holdt/pseuds/Holdt
Summary: Bruce should have gone with the Saharan hike for vacation.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic deals with difficult subject matter in nonstandard ways. Please check the tags and be aware that the opinions of the characters do not reflect the opinions or worldview of the author. Self-care, fam.
> 
> From DCEU Kinkmeme prompt: : https://dceu-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1491.html?thread=192979#cmt192979

Bruce should have gone with the Saharan hike for vacation. At least if he had, someone else might know where he is beyond a vague idea of which hemisphere. He knows the ship’s schematics; it’s a novelty affair, an affectation of the paranoid elite with the promise of ultimate privacy in a lead-lined cruiser.  The men swarming into the low lit viewing room are definitely not on the crew manifest or the guest list.

That’s the first problem.

They know the vessel; they move fast. They’re disciplined and tight-knit. They don't bother with threats; they set the mood right away by shooting every crew member in sight. Bruce can only assume they shoot the rest while corralling the other guests to separate parts of the ship.  It’s bad, but if everyone stays calm and pays attention, it shouldn’t get much worse.

Until it does.

“Grab one...What do you mean which one? One of the pretty ones!”

That’s the second problem.

They start grabbing.

She’s not much more than a kid, an innocent. Probably still dreaming about her upcoming sweet sixteen. There’s a choice and he needs to make it. They’re pulling the girl into the middle of the floor, and Bruce can’t watch. He _won’t watch—_

Bruce knows this type. There’s a high probability that being servile will get a less reactive response, but. aggression will be met with interest and a greater show of strength.  

“Hey, no.” He steps forward as he says it, right into the rifle-butt that jabs into his torso and drives him into a hunch. “No,” he says again as they try to push him back, raising his hands palms out. “Leave her alone. She’s just a kid. Leave her alone.”

It’s laughably easy to keep their eyes on him, to keep pushing forward until they shove her away so they can hit him some more. Speculative looks. “Keep it up, richboy. You want to take her place?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t think twice. “I’ll pay.” He’d take all of their places if he could. He’s worth more than enough to secure _all_ their ransoms.

Bruce knows he’s hit a chord when the talkative one comes over and grabs him by the face.  Saccharine-sweet faux-fruit, gun oil, gasoline, and sweat is a funk around the guy. His hand tightens  on Bruce’s jaw, and that’s one bruise he’s owed back. He wants Bruce to wince, but Bruce keeps his body language neutral and lets his eyes harden.

It’s enough of a challenge to get him backhanded. He goes with the momentum, lets himself stumble and sprawl to the ground. He slips his feet out of too-slippery dress shoes while he blinks owlishly at his attacker, projecting helpless fear. _Objective achieved._

“Okay, bitch, I’m sold.” Candy-scented breath in his face. “He’s pretty enough; look at him.” Bruce is dragged upward by his hair. He rises to his knees, tries to make it look fumbling. This isn’t the low light he’d prefer. Everything is starkly illuminated; there are no shadows for him to use. “He’ll do anything to keep from getting hurt. Won’t ya, richboy?”

Someone screams at them to leave him alone, but it’s more dramatics than sincerity; no one tries to come to his aid. Every one of the kidnapped victims is from Gotham; every one of them has been through this, or a situation very like this, before. They all know how this works: cooperate and you get to go home; pay your ransom and you get to go home. It’s not just the money and fame that make the wealthy of his city disaffected. In Gotham, it’s never a question of whether or not you’ll be hurt;  it’s how hurt will you end up this time?

He’s grabbed up by his neck and, alright, he cannot deny that this is not optimal. Not optimal at all, and it doesn’t bode well for his immediate future. Bruce clenches his hands carefully, twists so his watch rubs against the bone just-so. _Activated._

He calms his mind. “You’ll never get away with this,” Bruce mumbles by rote, taking in the view from his better vantage point. He barely has to think anymore; it slips out sounding just the right mix of righteous and scared. He has to make time. As soon as he doesn’t call in at the assigned hour, an alert will go out. That alert and the tracker embedded in Bruce’s watch will save these people, ultimately. _Not good enough;_ he needs a distraction.

"You know," chuckles the talker, "I think we will."

Bruce risks a carefully timed flail and vicious satisfaction runs through him when his elbow connects with a lackey’s face. Some goon slaps him hard enough that his nose starts to run. _Situation rapidly headed to FUBAR_.  

 

He glances over the room again: twenty feet of polished hardwood planking and quaint porthole windows, two rolling chairs, one weld-mounted nautical table, and fourteen heavily armed assailants. A cute little show-room nook bunk, probably the very same one in the over-glossy pamphlet advertising the exclusive cruise. One coat-hook. One ballpoint pen sticking out of a jeans pocket on the leftmost assailant. A wide assortment of sheathed knives and blades. Fifty-three hostages on deck, plus the fifteen huddled in this room, under rifle sight.

The situation is under control. These men (and they are all men) are professionals; they’ll blow the safe, take the jewels, maybe amuse themselves knocking Bruce around before they get paid just because he’s the mouthy one. He’s done this before. He can keep their focus on him as long as it takes. What he can’t do is start an all-out war in a room designed for tourism with civilians under fire. He’ll get them all killed.

The choice is clear: Bruce can fight these men, save the day, and have his secrets outed to the world or he can wait to find out who these men work for, let them have their petty way, and save an exponentially greater number of days for an exponentially greater number of people.

There isn’t a choice.

The men are professionals and he’s worth more undamaged. Bruce is experienced at being kidnapped; he knows the ropes. He’s worth more calm. Which is why it’s worrying that the first thing they do is truss his hands with cut-off bits of computer cable. Bruce is prepared for a threat display; the usual scenario is public shaming and a bit of low-level psychological torture. It’s immediately clear that this is not the usual scenario.

They’re not interested in a show. They’re making a point. He’s made himself a threat and now he’s going to be a lesson. They slap him around for a while in front of the others, talk trash about how they’re going to violate him out loud for the benefit of the others. The only fellow prisoner who meets Bruce’s eyes is the Dumas kid.

They work him over. Then, like the savages they are, they decide to play with their food. They make a game out of cutting his clothing off, and their only concession is not cutting him too deeply. By the time his button-down and undershirt are gone, Bruce is covered in a ragged lattice of thin red beaded lines. He grits his teeth. He isn’t wearing a silicone smoother, wasn’t wearing anything between his skin and his clothes.

A low whistle. “Well look at this guy. I think our friend here likes it rough, fellas.” They stare at him; they all do. Of course they do—the ones who want to hurt him in the here and now and the ones who’ll cut him later with their careless words. Bruce raises his chin and stares back at them.

“How much is your finder’s fee?” He makes himself ask it coolly. His skin tightens where the cold air of the below-deck cabin strikes him. “I’ll triple it.” It’s the standard response expected of him. He can afford it.

They find his question more amusing than it is. The hair on his nape rises, tingling. He’s made the wrong assumption. It’s bad; this is very bad. Bruce skips disbelief and goes straight to all-encompassing rage.

He has to change gears; they’re going to notice if their victim is too calm.. He forces himself to hyperventilate, opens his eyes wide. He lets his heart race,  muscles tremble, and the tears pressing at his eyes from the pressure on his scalp well up. When they drop their guard (as people do when they mistake anger for fear), Bruce moves.

It’s three point five seconds to the door, seven steps to freedom. A quick seven-second climb mid-deck to the auxiliary command cabin. Three seconds work, to use the backup radio and send an S.O.S.

He spins out from under the grip of the man holding him, leaving a tuft of hair behind. He rolls into the legs of two more, dropping them, then puts them down with brutal elbows. There’s a flurry of pieces drawn and hands swiping at him. Bruce drives his shoulder into a stomach and up, compresses a sternum, propelling one man into the door and the waiting coat-hook, then in quick succession to the floor, holding his head. He rolls into the corner, hooks one desk chair with his ankle and throws it at two heads.  One good impact. The idiots are more likely to shoot each other than Bruce in these conditions. Bruce ducks and weaves, still in motion, and drops down into a crouch, sweeping the other chair on rickety wheels towards one of the last three men. They run right into it trying to get to him. It’s inelegant, inefficient. Dirty.

“Don’t shoot him! I want that bitch alive!” The Talker. Bruce bares his teeth at that; it isn’t a compliment. He dodges clumsy hands, plucks the ballpoint pen from the pocket of a man coming at him with the back end of a .32, and takes an eye for his troubles. Screams and bloodshed all around; this is what Bruce knows best. Another stab, another set of screams, and the pen bursts blue all over his hand. Red, where he grips the jagged plastic before he buries it in a target’s leg. He’s past caring what anyone sees, what they’ll say, what they think. He can take all these clowns, no question.

 One nimble, half-assed-seeming hop atop the table, a step— _lift_.  A sharp pivot off the wall and Bruce is launched upward, knee-first into the chin of target number ten. Bruce hits the floor and _rolls, stays low, keeps moving_. His path is blocked; he slides and puts his back to the wall, yanking desperately at his bound wrists. Duck, sidestep, _throw_ , keep moving. One of the men Bruce tripped with the chair tries to stand, and Bruce doesn’t hesitate to kick him right in the face. The man drops. Target eleven.

Sweat breaks over Bruce, all over him. It isn’t going to be over and done now, a terror tactic to keep the masses quiet, not by a long shot. Now it’ll be personal. A snarl of frustration wells up when the door opens.

All he needs is a grapple hook, a stick, a board. Any weapon—a nail, a damned necktie. _He should have worn a necktie._ None of them are.

How many of them _are_ there? He’d estimated twelve, maybe fifteen, hijackers in all, but he’s obviously mistaken. It’s no good; he’d put up a good distraction, but there are more pushing into the room, and there’s nowhere left to go. He has to stand his ground.

Fine. He’s had worse odds. Bruce lifts his tied fists.  “Let’s get crazy.”

They crowd him in. He bites into the nearest thigh he can reach and rips his head away, head-butts the same man when he crouches over his injury, then collar-chokes target thirteen into swift unconsciousness. Chokes out fourteen with  a blood-hold while he dislocates fifteen’s knee. Cracks sixteen’s pelvis with his calves and spits the blood from his mouth.  Five seconds to freedom. Losing ground.

Frantic. Heart pounding _affrettando_  in his chest. A storm of blows and kicks.

A solid hit to the side of his head and somehow they get hands on him. Bruce could disable them all—four times as many with the right equipment and enough space, in at least three-hundred and twenty-two different ways from where he’s standing (crouching, _falling)_ —but what he can’t disable is the close quarters and the sheer bulk bearing him down. He’s out of time.

He thrashes and flails wildly through the haze, bares his bloodied teeth and _growls_ at them as they drag him back out of his pitiful shelter.

“Get your fucking hands off of me, you sick freaks! Get _off!_ My name is Bruce Wayne! I’m a private citizen, I’m a civil— _”_ Somebody knocks the wind out of him; he writhes desperately all the same. His words are pointless to them, but he makes them fight for every damn inch. He makes them _take_ what they want; he makes sure that’s what the world will see.

They throw him down. He snaps his legs out at them, abandons the illusion of incompetence and aims for knuckles and kneecaps. Nerve bundles and arteries. A chorus of low curses, and hard fingers dig into his limbs. Another    slap, a _careful_ slap; they’ve done this before. Bruce has seen plenty of workers on the East End of a night get slapped exactly this way. He struggles harder. The thought that they’re being careful not to mess up his face, _his teeth_ , makes him yell and strain against the hands restraining him. ”Damn you. _Damn you-“_

Thirty seconds. There’s the sound of another struggle then the meaty impact of fists, and Bruce contemplates through his icy remove who in all his acquaintances would be upstanding enough to try to help him. He’ll owe them, whoever it is, when this is all over.

“Enough bullshit!” Chatty McFuckface seems a little pissed off. “Don’t cry yet, richboy. You want that energy. We haven’t even gotten started.” His arms are pinned. Bruce could fight, but he stays tensed as if he’s frozen; if he starts to struggle, he’ll never be able to stop himself. They’ll cut his throat and use someone prettier than him.

“We?” he gets out as laconically as he can while he tries to shake the bastards off. He doesn’t have to fabricate the fear; he can taste it. “I’m worth more undamaged. You sure you want to share me with your buddies?” He goes limp in a plot for space, then surges up, straining. Sixty seconds.

A sharp yank to his hair and a ripping tug to his pants answer him. A cold edge pressing into his tensed stomach above his buckle. _Knife_ , his brain whispers. Ice prickles up the back of Bruce’s neck. “You think you’re special? You’re just another pretty Gotham whore.” A sharp knife. The air on his bare buttocks and legs makes Bruce flinch. Dammit. Still, the man pauses, sniffs at Bruce while Bruce swallows down his gorge and retreats further into his own mind.

“I’m sure we can come to some mutually agreeable—” Bruce Wayne would bargain, negotiate. He refuses to squirm as a thick finger probes him. “S-some mutually…h-hey, _hey_ —STOP.” His hips jerk away from the intrusion without his permission. “Stop—stop it you motherfucking animal, _stop!”_

One hundred and twenty seconds. This isn’t right. _This isn’t right._ Bruce doesn’t intend the switch from defense to lethality; it just happens. He sees one, two, three faces crack under his blows and yells when they bounce his head off the floor. The room fractures and he—

He can see the shock on the faces behind his attackers, just on the edge of his vision. Shock, stares, hands over faces and ears. Fellow kidnappees making eyes at him to give in before it gets worse, to do the beau monde thing and live another day. To do the _Gotham_ thing, and give in gracefully to what he can’t prevent.

  _No._ He won’t! He _won’t._

This isn’t how reasonable gangsters treat hostages they intend to return safe and sound. These assholes aren’t affiliated with any of the unionized Gotham gangs; if they were they’d know better than to mess up the merchandise. It’s not the money they’re after; it’s the infamy. They’re the _wrong_ kind of professionals—the worst kind. Bruce gives up all pretense of detachment; he wrestles madly, kicks out until they pin his legs down too, then he pinches and twists and claws whatever he can reach, skin shredding beneath his nails in the scuffle. It’s not— _no_ , it’s not enough, the flat tang of his own stress, the curtain of scarlet from the laceration over his eye. Too much adrenaline. Too much energy expenditure. Too much.

“I am a private citizen. I am a civilian. This is a goddamned act of piracy and a violation of safe conduct! I do _not_ concede to this. No! _No!”_ His body is struggling, squirming, _fighting._ They only bother to open him up so he won’t bleed out; frankly, the lube is more than he’d expected but he can’t bring himself to be thankful. He’ll never thank them for it. They’re going to get away with this; there’s no justice in the world that can make it right.

There is no justice in the world but what they make. Bruce grits his teeth. “When this is over, I swear I will _break_ you.” His promise is low and sure enough that the man putting his weight on him pauses in surprise. Bruce’s focus is on the pulse of blood in the jugular over him, and how much slack he needs to get his teeth in that neck. He lunges.

He’s slapped again—lazily—across the mouth. His teeth clack together and he arches, jerking and thrashing. Not enough to harm, but damn sure enough to hurt him. He spits his pain right back into their fucking faces. When Clark gets here, he’s going to wipe the floor with these punks, with whatever Bruce _leaves_ him to wipe up. Bruce shoves away the voice inside that tells him how little that matters.

Talkative Guy is, unsurprisingly, still talking. “Not as stupid as they say you are, but boy, buddy-o, do you have things backwards. I don’t know who you think you are, richboy, but you’re just meat to me. You _are_ too pretty to share, which is too bad, cause it’s gonna happen anyway. Still gonna fuck you good, right in front of all your rich friends, and the city’s gonna pay double what you just offered if they don't wanna see the rest’a your friends get it too. I like your fire. You keep them pretty eyes open. I wanna see ’em when I open you up. Then we’ll see who breaks first, deal?”

“No.” It means nothing to them, but he says it anyway. He goes on fucking _record_. “No. NO!”

There’s a flash—a camera. Bruce can’t push the thought aside: there’s a camera. They’re filming this. Everyone will know.

They’re professionals, but they’re arrogant and brash. His wrists burn; the electrical cord they used to tie his hands is slippery with sweat. Bruce jerks hard, feels his skin split, and uses the extra lubrication to scrape a hand free.

“Get _off_ , get off me dammit, _no!_ ” He swings, vision half-blinded by fury and sweat, hits as hard as he can, barely registers one falling off of him before another comes in low, rifle-butt cracking across Bruce’s collarbone. There’s too many; god no, there’s too many. He has to calm down. He has to control the situation.

He’s not in control; the situation is fucked. Bruce is about to be—

They’re—

Ugly, wretched sounds for an ugly, wretched act.

_He has to put each and every one of them into traction._

“Nobody’s comin’ for you, bitch. You’re _nobody._ ” A bone snaps. He doesn’t care; he’s fighting—fuck witnesses, fuck their camera. He’ll rip them apart; he’ll _maim every last one of them. “_ Settle down and we might make it easier on you. _”_

 _To hell with that._ He flails an arm free again. Dislocates a jaw and hooks his fingers into a vulnerable kneecap, adrenaline pounding through him and sapping his composure. _Fuck that._ He rakes a face, grabs an errant hand and twists viciously, feels bone and tendon crush before he’s swarmed. _No._

“NO!” He’s bucking and twisting. He knows it’s only driving them on but he can’t help it. He can’t stop fighting. He doesn’t know _how. “Fuck you,”_ he rages thickly. “Fuck you, fuck you— _no_ , let me go!”

Bruce lets his eyes unfocus, lets his mind drift far away from the shoving and swearing. He lets things _get crazy._ “NO! NO! No!” He won’t stop. He won’t shut up. He won’t let there be a _second_ of doubt in anyone’s mind about what this is. He scratches and kicks, bites whatever he can reach; he curses the fact that they seem too smart to try to put _anything_ in between his lips.  

Until someone sticks rude fingers in his mouth, and he chokes and bites down _hard,_ teeth scraping bone, mouth overflowing with panic.

_White-out_ , his skull ringing, jaw throbbing, _then_ he tastes the copper and hears the flat crack of the blow. Someone is screaming about their eyes. _Good._

 

The door opens.

He spits into a face, gets his own ground down into the no longer spotless surface of the viewing room floor. “You fucking sons of bitches. I’ll destroy you. I’ll _destroy_ you for this!” He will; he’ll do it, and he’ll _enjoy_ it.

 

He wonders what will be waiting for supper when he gets home. It will be wonderful; he’s been gone for two weeks. The meal is going to be spectacular. The company will be more so.

 

Three-hundred seconds. “Stop, _stop_ dammit!” He fights. He _fights._

 

The door opens.

 

The sunlight will just be brushing the tips of Gotham’s spires on its way down, when the cruise is scheduled to disembark.

 

Rancid stickiness rolling down the inside of his thigh; it could be blood, but he knows it isn’t. He knows. He gags. He—

Has to remember to breathe— _has to—_ or he’ll suffocate.

 _Jesus._ He can’t die like this.

“You motherfuckers, you goddamn _motherfuckers—”_ He bucks and kicks out hard with both feet even though it makes muscles in his torso shriek, kicks out and hears an answering gurgle that’s music to his ears. Gasps air into lungs on fire. It’s been… he’s lost count. _He’s lost count._

“ _Rapist_. You’re… all… you _worthless_ fucking…you pieces of shit, you goddamn _dogs—”_

 

Alfred will be waiting to greet Bruce and welcome him home. Everyone he wants in his life will be there.

 

Bruce snarls and uses his bound hands as a club on someone stupid enough to ease up. Pain explodes across his kidneys; he’s choked until his head swims and he can barely see straight.

 

The door opens.

 

Clark will… Clark will be there, with his earnest smile and gentle eyes. Clark will grin and bring him out of himself and lighten his heart.

 

The door opens and Bruce won’t give them the satisfaction of begging; he won’t. He’ll scream; he has to. The pain has to go somewhere, but he refuses to beg. He won’t, he won’t, _he won’t._ Now is a moment, only a moment, nothing more.

 

 

Clark will be there. He focuses on that: Clark will be there. _Clark will be there_.

 

They don’t stop. They don’t do him the courtesy of knocking him out. They don’t care if he fights; they get off on it. _This_ is why they’re here—not for ransom, not for jewels, gold and cold cash, no. They’re here to feed on fear. They’re here to make a name and have half the city shaking in their fashionable boots, afraid of the night and ready to pay anything to make sure that what’s happening to Bruce doesn’t happen to them and theirs. _Fuck these amateurs._

They can’t win; Bruce won’t _let_ them win. The alternative would be undoing himself.

He’s afraid. He’s so fucking afraid, and all it does is fuel his outrage. They can’t have his fear; Bruce can’t fear the night. He _is_ the Night. He is the Night. He is…

He is wishing that he’d listened to his best… his _only_ friend, just this once. But if he had, he wouldn’t be here, which means that someone else would be _here_ in his place—someone innocent—and that he could never forgive himself for wishing. He won’t wish it.

He wishes he was innocent. He wishes he could reach a goddamned knife.

 _He just has to reach the knife._ His fingers itch and clench on empty air.

He saves his breath, measures them out, forces his lungs to cooperate. Sixty-four breaths. One hundred and eight endless moments. His moment doesn’t come.

 

Bruce drifts away from the hurting, wordless animal that his body has become, and waits for it to all be over.

 

Rough jerks, a ripping sound, and Bruce’s bonds are cut. A boot shoves him over onto his side. He sprawls on the floor—ears on alert—before jerking up, arms raised in self-defense. Everything in his gut bubbles over and out of his mouth.

 

The edges of the room blur and melt in and out.

The door to the viewing room closes.

They don’t grab anyone else, though, and that’s… That’s something.

_Objective achieved._

That’s something.

 

Bruce knows he’s shaking. Dispassionately notes the flow of liquid from his body and makes a reminder to visit his family physician. Just as stoically waits for his body to stop retching so he can move to the next indignity. His watch never lies; it’s been a total of ten minutes and… six hundred and fifteen seconds since they threw him down.

There are things he needs to do, things he cannot forget. He counts them.

One: he needs medical attention, he needs to get the hostages to safety. Two: stitches. Safety. Three: a full-spectrum antibiotic. Four: an STI screening. Five: there were five, and he’ll never stop choking up vomit, five—he needs an emesis basin. No, he needs that goddamned camera and whatever the server address is at the other end. Six: a GPS transponder, to get to a secure location. Seven: there were _five_ and he needs ice packs, backup, and access to the emergency radio. Five, no _eight,_ a shock blanket, a garrote and a communicator.  A corner at his back and a sharp knife. Warm water. Five, a minor repair kit. A fucking washcloth. Five and the hostages, he has to—

Soap.

Jesus, he needs _soap._

There’s only copper and bile left now. He scrubs the back of one hand across his mouth and forces himself to breathe. His body will survive. He will survive. He’s fine. He’s _fine._

His eyes are burning.

The silence on deck is broken only by the whimpers of his fellow hostages and the laughing outside the door from the kidnappers. He hates them all. He uses scraps from his ripped pants to wipe himself clean, flinching even though it's his own hands. He locks his jaw on everything that wants to escape and swallows it down. Throws the wads of filth-smeared cloth aside and watches the rest of them avoid his eyes and shrink away as if he has leprosy.

_Parasites._

“Brucie…” someone comes near him, pitying eyes and soft, soft hands.

“Don’t touch me!” He doesn’t mean to snarl at her, doesn’t mean to speak at all. He registers a shocked face, then she pulls back. A dizzying swell of voices, murmuring and people crying. Not Bruce. Bruce is _fine._

_He’s fine._

There’s a quiet conversation, and a movement in his peripheral vision has Bruce scrambling backwards blindly until he hits the wall. His fists are raised, to threaten or to protect himself, he isn’t quite sure. “Don’t.” His voice is wrecked.

“Mr. Wayne…” A softness gently comes to rest on his hand. A sheet—no, a tablecloth. Linen. Bruce hates himself for the flinch he can’t suppress. He grips the fabric and pulls it to his chest, staring Elliot Dumas down until the young man backs away. The girl Bruce stepped in for won’t even look at him; she’s too busy weeping into some older woman’s shoulder. That woman, at least, does Bruce the courtesy of meeting his eyes with a shaken nod, mouthing her thanks. Her gratitude might actually last longer than it takes to cash a GC Central Bank check.

_The Dumas kid’s jaw is bruised. Hematoma around right eye socket. Moves constrained; probably bruising to torso. He’s been beaten._

Bruce nods stiffly at him and pulls the ruined cloth over the livid marks on his skin. “Thank you.” Not for the covering. For the effort, wasted as it is.

He has no intention of moving just yet. He needs a moment, to regroup, to get his mind straight. There are things that need doing; he has to—

There are things he has to—

 

Now would be a good time for backup.

 

The deck yaws jerkily beneath him. There’s a shudder throughout the entire vessel; the sound of creaking metal and yelling. A collision.  

“You think you can touch him? You think you can _threaten_ him?” Pure fury.

_Jesus, Clark, no._

“Clark.” Bruce’s voice is low, too low and too far away. He has to stop him. “Stop. Stop.” A limp body flies through the locked door and smacks into the wall opposite Bruce’s crouched position with a sickening crunch. Blood, _so much blood_. How many times had Clark hit him? Not clotting though, bleeding; Bruce gives the slumped form a critical eye. The asshole will live with reasonably prompt medical care, though he’ll probably never walk again.

_Good enough._

Bruce sets eyes on his target, grits his teeth, and starts his limping progress towards it.

A blur of color, then Clark hovering before him like a dream, skin clean and gleaming with sea-spray, eyes wounded.  He scans Bruce’s tablecloth-clad form, his eyes travelling down then jerking back up, pinpoints of crimson in his pupils. His mouth shapes Bruce’s name but no sound escapes. He reaches out and Bruce already knows what he’ll do, knows how he reacts when the worst happens.

“No,” he pushes Clark’s hands away. “Save _them._ I… can wait.” Bruce immediately wishes he’d used the hand signals instead. The integrity of his voice is ( _shredded)_ suboptimal.

Clark’s eyes dim slightly before the red glow fills them again.

 _Don’t kill anyone._ It’s what Bruce is supposed to say. It’s what he _has_ to say, and he’s never hated himself more for it. “Non-lethal. Don’t… _Don’t_.” Don’t let it be him, don’t let Bruce be the reason Clark loses faith. Bruce isn’t worth it. Clark would argue, but Bruce knows the difference between hope and reality. Life keeps giving him reasons to remember.

_Remember who’s watching. Remember, Clark._

Clark’s frown is thunderous, but he nods once, slow, as if it’s something he has to deeply consider first. A whoosh of air, and Bruce is laying on his side, tucked carefully into the cabin bed. He shudders and gags once, helplessly, at the contact. Clark’s face is a mirror of horror; he carefully pulls his hands away from Bruce.

“I’m here,” murmured in his ear almost too fast to hear. “You called me and I’m here.”  He looks down and his expression freezes and shifts into something infinitely sadder. Bruce has to look too, to understand why. His hands are clenched; he forces his fists open and scarlet fabric slips through his fingers. He doesn’t meet Clark’s eyes. Then Clark is gone.

There’s work to be done. He pulls himself up. “Move.” Clears a throat that feels like glass shards and yells it. “Grab onto something. Everybody _move!”_ Frightened eyes stare at him. Nobody moves.

The entire vessel lifts, begins to move through the air. Screams and cries of confusion and pain. Bruce’s target falls over; the camera perched atop the tripod falls and rolls under the counter. He’s seen enough though, the red light, the blink of the auto-focus—not just a cam, a _livecam._ An IPcam, presumably tied to a website somewhere, streaming its broadcast. Bruce constructs a multi-tiered plan of attack to sweep the gantry and break every neck he can find, then forces himself to stand there and do _nothing_. Bruce waits until the maelstrom fades, until he can see clearly.

Christ, and _he’d called out for Clark._ He’s off balance and weak-legged; he stumbles back to his knees. Pain crackles up his back. He’s bleeding. He cannot pass out. He _will not_ pass out. “Superman,” he gets out. “Level out the damn boat.”

There’s an odd moment of _tilt_ , then the floor grade lessens and evens out. A sensation of buoyancy novel enough that Bruce makes a note to look into it later. Then a tiny bubble of vertigo and the familiar see-saw swell of water resistance on the hull. They’ve landed.

Relief almost sends him crashing down into the black. He can’t. He holds it firm in his mind: he has to remain conscious. He can’t allow strangers to examine his body, to touch his body without his permission. Not again. There’s no telling how he’ll react if he wakes to that.

They won’t touch him at all. Bruce has his own doctors and his own lawyers; this is one of many reasons why.

Bruce takes a breath, and reaches deep. _Deeper._ The road is familiar, though he rarely has to travel so far down it these days. Existence narrows down to the next breath. Pain is… it is. Pain _is,_ so he accepts it, then he dismisses it in favor of action. He stands. He removes the shreds of binding clinging to him. He sets his nose (and his jaw against the anger and pain); it’s going to look ghastly, but there’s no help for it. He wipes the blood from his mouth and lower jaw. Some of it’s his, but most of it isn’t. He collects the damned camera; he needs it. He pulls the span of linen around himself, ignores the seeping stains already on the cloth, and forces his body to stand tall. He’s Bruce fucking Wayne.

He’s _The_ Wayne. He won’t be cowed, not by this. Not by anything. Not ever.

Above, the sound of booted feet racing on deck—shouts and cries for help—the Coast Guard, most likely, headed down.  Medical and security personnel. Hot chocolate and platitudes. Scrutiny and pity.

The first and third are useful; the rest he can do without. He pulls authority around him like a cape and steps into the hallway. A rippling shadow from high above the deck flits over the wider view windows. “Don’t,” Bruce warns.

 _Stay out of it, Clark._  

The last thing they need is Superman getting spattered by what’s about to hit. Bruce slips the small camera between two cunningly twisted folds of his makeshift covering.

Time for damage control.

 


	2. Chapter 2

There is no controlling the damage.

They rip Bruce apart in print and on national television, as they love to do. No one comes forward to speak for him, not even the Dumas kid. It’s a smart move; Bruce is a social liability now. He’d never expected anything different, truthfully. More importantly, it’s what Bruce planned for; it’s what he needs. He knows better than to expect the best of people who have nothing at stake. They’ll find something new to talk about; the buzz will die down soon enough.

The morning paper is a half-page spread with a full-color photo of Bruce, Alfred’s thick winter Burberry coat shielding his shoulders, face blank and head high as he’s escorted in painfully slow ceremony through the line of microphones and emergency lights at the end of the North Pier Dock. (He’d walked it; of course he had, though against the field medic’s recommendation.)

Unflattering pre-dawn light on Bruce’s bruised face and grimy cloth-wrapped torso as he finally deigned to take a seat on the gurney the EMTs had prepped. His ink and filth-stained hand and arm. His bare feet are the highlight of an entire evening of fashion news. Bathed in the wash of red and blue lights from atop cruisers and emergency vehicles, the russet stains and emergent bruises look livid— sickly purple, poisonous—

_(Ha ha—)_

The blood crusting and flaking on his skin, on his hands... itching, maddening. Their semen— their _filth—_  sticky inside him, their cells under his nails and between his teeth, their handprints clear on his throat, shame spackled on his skin—

_(You Lose—)_

He wants nothing more than to get clean, but Bruce forces himself to sit there, blood and worse crusting...

His body is a crime scene. Like this experience— this _incident—_ samples have to be processed and analyzed. It has to be documented. _Bruce_ has to be documented.

Eyes, so many eyes. So many questions.

 _‘Yes, I was attacked.’_ He wasn’t the only one. _No, I don’t know the men who attacked me._ _They came over the rails, from below deck. No, I don’t know of anyone who would want to see me hurt. No, I’m not okay. No, I’m sorry, I don’t know.’_ These are his safest options. ‘ _Everything happened so fast’—_ true, but not in the way they thought he meant.

 

 _I don't feel well_. Useless information, to them and to Bruce, as useless as his shaking limbs. Useless as the pressure on his swollen throat and the burning in his chest that hasn’t abated despite free airflow, wasteful as the unknown, unwelcome sound he keeps swallowing back hard behind tight teeth.

If he lets it out, it will break him.

His blood is literally and metaphorically scenting the air; of course all the jackals come sniffing.

 

He spends two weeks in a private room at Gotham General. Sterile, blinding-white sheets and walls. The hard, narrow bed with its hard, narrow plastic guards that stay up ‘for Bruce’s protection’. Sheets bleached down to the texture of sandpaper, thread count so low he can hear the rasp of each finger on them, every movement against them. Antibacterial wash and lack of softener scratching and snagging at healing skin, deviling him until just _lying_ there becomes an exercise in endurance. The hiss of the oxygen filter in the ceiling, the low hum of the blaring lights, always on— never any real dimness or relief from the exquisite _vacancy_ of the room.

White on white, endless pure white, broken only by sliver of sky from his vantage point on the wide window. It makes him want to claw his skin off, makes him want to _mourn_.

 _Time for your meds, Mr. Wayne_.

How can he?

_Just one more test for now._

Purity is not something Bruce has ever aspired to, in either— in _any_ persona. Not something he’s ever put undue stock in or taken much care to nourish. Not something he’s ever seen fit to treasure for the simple fact of its existence, not something Bruce has ever seen _value_ in.

_Just one more stick. One more vial._

It’s all his thoughts cycle back to now— how wasteful he’s been. How dismissive.

_One more swab._

How foolish.

_You should try to get some rest._

What right does he have to mourn something he didn’t even care about until it was gone? So irrational, and so fucking _stupid_ of him to do so now. Bruce fumes instead, lying in the cocoon of snowy pillows and billowing sheets. Jerks awake again and again when he’s only seemingly just found peace.

_Just one more thing to do, Mr. Wayne— Roll on your side for me?_

On and on, and Bruce swallows his arguments behind his snarls, stifling flinches under stark, glaring lights and carefully impassive eyes.

_Feet in the stirrups._

An endless cycle of the same blank, professional faces and devouring eyes. The same biting, antiseptic smells of sickness and low-lying fury.

_Breathe, Mr. Wayne._

Money only keeps people quiet for so long. With as many witnesses as there were present and viewing remotely, with all the fame and notoriety he has cultivated for his public persona over the course of two decades, the quiet doesn’t last very long at all.

The first reports from the rags claim he’s died or been admitted to private psychiatric care. Stocks take a hit, and then rebound almost the moment after he’s discharged from the hospital. He’s photographed— shooting a blithe smile to jostling reporters as he’s assisted out of a wheelchair and into the car.

When he sees the glossy photo later, even in print Bruce’s smile is obviously contrived— too tight at the corners, too flat in the eyes. Knowing there’s a leak, someone on the sixth floor who either couldn’t keep their mouth shut or couldn’t pay their bills, maybe one of the nurses he’d cursed at and thrown out of his room for trying to pray over him— it shouldn’t take him aback.

It does.

It’s natural for those in the health industry… in the _nursing_ industry to show some manner of sympathy for their charges. Bruce doesn’t want it— not their sycophantic prayers, not their fucking nerve-grating _sympathy,_  the overly gentle demeanor they show to him, as if Bruce will break, as if he’s weak, as if—

He’s not a goddamn victim.

Bruce catches the door before he enters the town car, back straight and eyes narrowed. Registers and ignores Alfred’s double-take. Catalogs the movement of the small crowd, smile frozen on his face as he stares them down, fingers itching to pull the baton from the chair’s frame. Waiting…

Waiting to see which of them will attack first, he realizes. With a repressed shudder, he forces a small wave instead, and leans down into the coolness of the cabin, allowing Alfred to push the door firmly closed.

The noise from outside cuts off into calm silence. The flashes from behind the glass are nothing, dots of light from a place far distant from where Bruce sits.

Alfred pays the horde of journalists less attention than he would a fly, gets the chair folded and tucked away into the trunk, and slides behind the wheel without a word to any of them.

“Where to, Master Bruce?”

Familiar and welcome, the cultured vowels and clipped consonants of—

“ _Home_ ,” he says. “Take me home, Alfred.”

The drive is quiet and for the first time since the incident, since the… Since.

Something in Bruce uncoils tentatively.

He spends another week lying on his stomach in the aftermath of reconstructive surgery, absorbing and being absorbed by the newsfeeds and his small, revolving fort of paperwork. Half out of his mind on painkillers and antibiotics, a tactical knife under his pillow. The physical recovery goes as well as can be expected. His collarbone burns coldly now, the break may never quite heal right— the titanium rods Bruce had implanted a nonspecific yet deep ache, maddening in a completely different way than the sharp, relentless burn in his lower body.

 _Mr. Wayne, it’s psychosomatic,_ the doctors say.  _Give it time, Mr. Wayne. Give yourself time to heal._ Time is the one thing he doesn't have. The cold spots, the muscle tremors, the spasms— they don't stop.

_It isn’t time he needs; it’s control. Control over his limbs, of his pain, of his emo—of the situation._

It's _not_ in his head.

They think they know his body better than he does. It’s in his head, they insist; as always, they say he shouldn’t be able to feel any appreciable difference.

_No lasting damage. Minimal scarring. Minimal long-term recovery._

And none of them think to double-check their assumptions, because Bruce is _so lucky,_ so _fortunate,_ to not need wholesale reconstructive surgery, to not need his fucking digestive system locked down. To not be stuck with a colostomy bag and half a lower intestine.

Bruce was lucky, they say. _He_ says nothing, but Alfred quietly fires that team and finds staff for the month of in-house rehab who know how to keep their mouths shut and their opinions to themselves.

 

For a man like Bruce, who’s trained himself to know every millimeter of muscle and sinew in his own body, who’s hammered his lump of clay into a weapon for his purposes—

What do they know about it? Not much.

They don’t know shit.

The burning becomes a part of Bruce, like the numbness in his upper shoulder, like the warped grooves of marred flesh across his back from dancing with Selina. Background noise, a known annoyance.

His body heals. He’s grateful for the solitude and security of the Manor’s walls— he doesn’t think he would do well with the glass, the minimalism of the lakehouse, the water, the waves… not after what’s happened.

 

 Empathy is not a survival trait in Gotham.

They say he’s had a psychotic break: the newscasters, the Board, City Council-members, random people on the internet. They say he's in retreat, he's fled to the Swiss Alps, no—the French Riviera. He's boarded up the Manor, not five years after its reconstruction; he's blackballed an entire medical company. They say he's been seen with this or that celebrity of the moment. He's been spotted tossing aside the chair and cane, he's faking—he's a liar. A cheat. A godless man. A rich asshole who finally got what was coming to him. That he should have known better, should have fought harder, should have been _smarter._

_They're not wrong. Not entirely._

Others enjoy speculating. It's an easy sport with few negative returns, for the average person.

And oh, how they _love_ speculating about Bruce. Infantilizing him with declarations about how he's too good and precious for this world one day, and the next day scathing, saying how he deserved to be taken down a peg...an entire _shelf_ , for being who and what he is. For supporting the regulations and prohibitions that he does, for providing vocal and financial support to communities that his peers would rather see burn. For being a flamboyant, bed-hopping libertine, even though that shouldn’t be the issue— Bruce’s proclivities aside, enthusiastic engagement was hardly an open invitation to lack of consent.

They treat it as if his business is _their_ business, and it’s not new—Gotham has always enjoyed watching him. Now though, it isn’t Bruce they see when they watch.

It's that damn tape.

Everyone who is anyone wants to speak with Bruce Wayne.

He has nothing to say, in his defense or otherwise. In this—for now—silence is his most dependable armor.

The images of Bruce losing his fucking mind and being summarily assaulted play on too many channels to count. Bruce makes it to three hundred before he has to bury his face in his hands and regroup. It takes him hours longer than it should. He needs to watch the attack, to be assured that he’d utilized every advantage afforded him, to examine the battlefield from every available angle, but the only angle that’s available is the one being used to victimize him. Consequently, Bruce finds it much more difficult to watch than he’d expected to…

He can’t make it through the footage, not a tenth of it—not a _minute_ of it. Not thirty seconds, not five.

It doesn’t surprise him to find that Clark has taken a leave of absence from the Daily Planet, citing personal reasons. He imagines what it must be like having to hear it over and over, and Bruce can only hope Clark has taken a trip to that monstrous structure he hides in the Arctic, rather than sitting in his dingy west Metropolis apartment listening to Bruce’s pain.

 

 

Eventually, of course, _after_ , after Bruce’s name and proclivities have been dragged through more mud than half the Liberty River, everyone steps up to denounce the “brazen act of terrorism”. Adrian Dumas comes clean in a scathing expose about his version of what he saw and what he thinks of it. He lambastes the entire associated press, youthful indignation and outrage making him a household name overnight— gets his face and Bruce’s plastered on too many shiny covers to count.

There are speeches and parades and protests. There are city-wide petitions for increased budgetary allowances for the GCPD. There’s the _Protect Our Own_ campaign. There’s the flood of inappropriate and vicious-spirited memes and all the uninspired glee the tank media takes in calling him the Wincing Prince until his people serve them for defamation of character and harassment. (He doesn’t ask them to do so, but his people are loyal; there’s some comfort to be had in that.)

There are analyses by talking heads and unauthorized television re-enactments. There’s a Walk for Wayne march. There are point-of-view eyewitness exclusives. There are however many digital copies of the footage that Alfred was unable to catch in his frantic world-wide server-scrape (and let them come after Bruce and Wayne Industries for that—let them _try_ to prove it). There is the upswell in stock prices and the outpouring of support and encouragement that Gotham City dedicates to the victims and, by extension, Bruce.

However, Bruce doesn’t serve the duty that he does for thanks and he doesn’t need support; he makes do with what he has—he doesn’t _require_ inspiration to perform his obligations.

He doesn’t allow himself to make the mistake of believing that what happened to him was the worst thing that happened during the hour he and his fellow hostages were detained. People _died_. He’s alive, and he’s—

 _He’s fine_ , he thinks.

The rules are as they’ve always been: no psychiatrists, no psychoanalysis, no meds, no meddling.

 

The steps are familiar, as is the cadence of pace. Bruce turns to face the wall instead of the partially open bedroom door.

“I came as fast as I could. Only just hit the border this morning.” The words tumble out of Dick, a torrent that Bruce steels himself against. “I didn't hear about it right away because I was undercover at—you know what? What am I even…? Shit, Bruce, you don't need to hear this.”

The hovering. Dear god, the _hovering._

Dick stays outside Bruce’s bedroom for a few days, haunting the ground floor and the upper stairway with solemn focus. They’ve been incommunicado for years, and this is…

_Too much. Not enough._

Once Bruce would have asked what had happened— what doubtlessly redacted mission was so important as to cause Dick to be unable to view major news outlets? But now…

Nowadays that information isn’t due him, or offered. It would be easy, to say something now, divert Dick’s attention to his own concerns, allow Bruce to bury himself in the murky coils of reading facial cues and body language, pull the information from Dick like air from a balloon. But…

_Danger – abort! Do not engage._

 Pursuing an open line of communication with Dick _now,_ regardless of whether it allows Bruce to scratch that nagging curiosity is…. No.

It’s no good reason to break tradition, not after the explosive manner he and Dick parted ways. Not when it would open Bruce up to scrutiny and questions in turn. Open to questions like ‘so what’s going on with you’ and ‘how are you’. More than anything, what Bruce needs now is the certainty of control. Control of information, control of _himself…_

Is it pity, that brings Dick running back to Bruce’s side now, when—

“Not like you need to hear about my travel troubles—“ Dick stops himself again, the last in a long line of daily self-interruptions. It’s exhausting to both of them.

Bruce ignores the comment with a hum, because acknowledging it would be to acknowledge what they both know has happened. Which would make it real, in a way it hasn’t quite managed to become yet in Bruce’s mind. But for Dick to know, to _speak of it…_  No.

“They got all the evidence they needed,” Dick continues. _Evidence._ “Prosecution is calling for life sentences. So far as we can tell, it was an inside job—”

“Of course it was,” Bruce interrupts, ready to be done with the conversation entirely.

 _I needed you, Dick._ But this isn’t Dick Grayson, Bruce’s son. This is Dick the detective. Dick the cop. Not who or what Bruce needs. And if he’s here on official business, or if after four days of waiting he’s managed to _convince_ himself that it’s still just business, then—

“I doubt there’s a judge on the coast that would make you take the stand—“ Dick stops himself, mouth twisting, a stubborn frown of empathy that Bruce knows too well. _Pity. Shame._

 _“Do you think I care?”_ he snaps.

 _If you’re ashamed of me, then you shouldn’t be here at all._ But no, through the fury rising in the back of his head, through the sight of Dick’s hand raising palms-up, his slight backwards step—

“I… thought you might,” Dick says carefully. “I wanted you to know the job is being done right, that’s all.”

Through the sight of Dick nonchalantly giving him _space, as if he needs it,_ as if there’s something _wrong with Bruce—_

Bruce breathes in. Slow, easy.

One, two.

One, two.

The heat slowly dissipates into a sinking disappointment with himself. He knows that isn’t the case at all. This isn’t Dick showing him up; this is Dick _showing up._ This is Dick caring enough not to throw the bare truth in Bruce’s face, to leave him some shred of dignity.

This is Dick— _his son,_ for all intents and purposes— eyeing him warily.

“Wait,” Bruce says softly, the finality in his tone breaking the hush.

No, Dick wouldn’t forget himself so far as to feel _sorry_ for Bruce, not after what Bruce has put him… put the both of them through. There was a time when Dick would have broken doors down to get to Bruce, if he was hurt. Now...

Now Dick waits, grim-faced and restless. There’s nothing for it, Bruce sees after four days, but to face him.

Dick is serious, in expression and body language— which is strange enough, but to add more surrealness to Bruce’s life…

Dick, after an aborted motion towards him which activates every fighting instinct Bruce has, steps back from Bruce’s tensed frame with knowing eyes and for the first time since Bruce can recall… Has nothing to say. Is _silent._

_Dick was going to hug me._

Was going to, and stopped himself.

_Buzzing, inside and out. Dizzying, nausea swooping in—_

“Bruce…? Bruce, are you alright?” he hears, from what seems to be… an awful long distance. The room snaps back into focus with a feeling of a disjointed limb— reality aching at the seams, Bruce’s head throbbing in time with his chest. Dick’s gaze is far too discerning in the aftermath of dislocation. _Assessing._

“Go home, chum,” Bruce manages past everything that’s choking him. “Go back to Bludhaven.”

“I— Is there anything you need—“

“Thank you,” he pushes out. “For coming, Dick.” Bruce swallows. “But I’m fine. _Please.”_

It’s that— that carefully bitten out plea, that stops Dick and shutters his wet eyes. He gives a brisk nod, blinking furiously.

“If that’s what you need. I’ll be in touch.” He meets Bruce’s eyes. “I mean it this time,” he adds after a moment. “And I’ll leave the badge at home.”

In the face of his sincerity, what can Bruce do but nod like a dumb animal, wait for him to leave, and crawl back into his den?

 

Alfred is a wonder that Bruce doesn’t deserve. He takes over Bruce’s care once the in-house rehab is completed. He helps as he can; Bruce represses his flinch whenever his guardian hovers too close. (Two steps.) Alfred has the furniture rearranged for Bruce’s comfort, all the chair backs turned to the walls and the doorways cleared.

Returning to his daily routine is imperative. It’s thirty-five strokes from one end of his swimming pool to the other; Bruce trims his time down to twenty seconds. He aims for ten.

Bruce pretends not to notice the changes taking place in the manor; it’s best to allow Alfred his preferences. The west hallway is one hundred and two feet long, forty point eight steps; it takes approximately six point fifty-two seconds to get to the door of Bruce’s bedroom from the end. Alfred announces himself before entering rooms in small ways he never would have used before: a deliberate scuff of his shoe, the tap of meticulous fingernails on plaster, the slight catch of clearing his throat.

The study is ten steps across. If he’s quick, if he’s fast enough, Bruce can make it from one side to the other in under one point twenty eight seconds. There is no clear line of sight to the upper stairwell; he needs a mirror moved so he can properly see the bannister-head. He coats the mirror in a translucent nano-polymer make it shatterproof in the event of a home invasion.

Alfred looks him in the eye, accedes to his many requests, and carries on doing what is in Bruce’s best interests as he always has without consulting Bruce about the details. Bruce finds stacks of invitations and puff-piece articles bound up with the newspapers in the bin. He reads every one in the dimness of the large kitchen at night—the well-wishes and the slander both—then puts them all back in the trash where they belong.

Returning to his daily routine is imperative, and yet it lingers just out of his reach.

Alfred never lets him see a glimmer of pity; Bruce is pathetically grateful for this.

 

The scene becomes an iconic one: Superman, caught by camera in the midst of his battle against the elements, saving civilian survivors of a mudslide. The camera is shaky, the footage just clear enough to see the Man of Steel pause, head turning before continuing the rescue efforts for several minutes. His eyes glow. Then he disappears; the crack of a sonic boom echoes and the footage goes to static.

Nine minutes, no—five hundred and fifty seconds. The news reports that Superman doesn’t return to the scene of disaster until half an hour later. Bruce counts it out again and again.

“No comment yet,” a glossy news anchor relays, “on why Superman left an evacuation zone to assist with a relatively minor hostage situation on the Atlantic basin—”

Bruce turns the sound off.

Four hundred and eighty-six seconds that he can account for from the timestamp onscreen to Clark’s arrival _then_. Two thousand, one hundred and eighteen point two seconds independently reported versus the six-hundred odd seconds that Bruce’s internal clock tells him the airlift took. Six hundred and ten seconds of torture. He knows it’s there, but he can’t find the seam in his memory where the time was lost.

 

Clark is courteous enough to call instead of invading his space; Bruce finds reasons not to answer his calls. It isn’t vanity.

It isn’t.

What he and Clark had been headed towards has no place in this; Bruce can’t allow the two situations to hold the same territory in his mind. He can endure a lot, but the thought of Clark’s pity is the blade that cuts deepest.

Bruce listens to his messages—short and quiet requests to see Bruce, to know what he can bring, what he can do. If he can come stand at Bruce’s side in this.

Courtesy will only hold Clark back for so long, he thinks. He holds Clark to a different standard, because Clark is the best man he knows, but Clark is still a man and Bruce is tired of being betrayed by his own body’s reactions.

 

Bruce attends the funeral parade for the crew of the ship and makes a generous and, more importantly, _anonymous_ private donation to the families of those lost at sea and those injured.

 

For weeks afterward, the pain from his own injuries is a constant reminder of what Bruce has survived. It isn’t until the aches and abrasions fade and the stitches dissolve that Bruce realizes that his actual injuries are far beyond what he’d assumed.

He’s never liked having people at his back; he has tolerated it over the years out of necessity and social value, but early experience has taught Bruce that people who approach him from a blind spot generally don’t have his best interests at heart. It’s an impulse that he’s disciplined himself for years not to respond to unless in a combat situation. It’s an impulse that crashes back in with a vengeance.

He comes to himself, back pressed into the corner of his own dining room, prickling with sweat and the sour bite of adrenal response. He’s threatening someone; no words, just a low grating verbal warning. He sounds like an animal.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred’s voice is carefully neutral. “ _Bruce._ It’s just me. _”_

The sound of the sea, endless and merciless. The sway of the boat-deck underfoot.

Bruce is… He’s…

“ _Bruce_. Listen to me, my boy. I intend to stay _right here_. You’re home.”

Bruce is… Standing on level ground. Breathing too fast.

Brandishing a steak knife at his surrogate father while using a cloche from the table as some kind of ersatz shield… Ready to attack. Bruce blinks, vision wavering.

There is no sea. There is no damned boat.

Christ. What is he _doing_? It’s been almost two decades since Bruce has lost control this way.

“I…” Bruce lowers the knife and distantly notes the tremor running through his hand. “Alfred...” He clears his throat and sets the knife down, then stares at the cloche in his hand until Alfred steps forward and gently removes it.

“Come now, Master B, there we are.  Good lad.” Somehow Alfred gets him moving.

Bruce isn’t surprised in the least to see Clark floating, hand touching the glass outside his double-paned second story window. He pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger wearily before crossing the room to lift the latch and throw the window open.

“For fucks sake, come in, Clark. Someone will see you.” He hears Clark’s hesitation, how he breathes in a bit at Bruce’s profanity. Not that Clark is the paragon of all that is pure, despite Superman’s own P.R. rap, but Bruce doesn’t usually allow himself to curse this way. He doesn’t allow himself to be _heard_ cursing this way.

Bypassing the usual seems to be on trend for the month. Bruce backs into his seat when Clark steps inside the room. He hovers, his face uncertain.

 _Jesus_. Bruce counts the steps to the door from the chair. Two point eight. _Zero point four seconds._ Has to close his eyes briefly when he hears the familiar tread of Clark’s slow pacing; that solid, reliable rhythm that he knows so well. Bruce relaxes muscles he hadn’t intended to tense. The magnitude of Clark’s kindness always surprises him, even now. 

“What are you doing here?” He keeps his tone as level and cool as he can, affects nonchalance and ignores the uptick of his heart at the startled look it earns him.

“I know I shouldn’t drop in like this,” Clark says, eyes on Bruce. “But I couldn’t sleep.”

“Seems to be going around.”

“I needed to _see_ you.”

And that, that’s almost funny. Almost.

“You can see me from anywhere,” Bruce says, sounding cold and remote even to his own ears. “No need to make special consideration now.”

“I needed to see you,” Clark says, quieter. And that... Ah, yes—that is expected because Clark is _honest._

Two swift steps and Bruce is pressed back against his chair and heart in his throat. A blur, and Bruce blinks down—

To the sight of Clark on his knees, the pressure of his forehead grazing Bruce’s knee. “I’m so—“ Clark chokes out. _Fast— Clark is fast_ —

“I should have— Bruce, I’m—“ And in the end again, as always Clark is kind to Bruce. He looks Bruce in the eye, because he’s brave— braver than Bruce, who’s inexplicably terrified by a man on one knee. He swallows hard when Clark does. Watching as Clark swallows down all the excuses and apologies that Bruce doesn’t want to hear. “Tell me what you need.”

"I need time. Space." _I need for people to stop asking me what I need_.

"Picked up a few things for you along the way," Clark says. "Heard Dick left already?” he asks in a way which demonstrates he already knows the truth and the real question is _why._

No point in asking how Clark knew. _Someone has been listening in._ “He didn’t need to be here,” Bruce says through tight teeth. _Neither do you._

“When's the last time you slept, Bruce?"

Two, four...maybe four days. Maybe more. What did it matter? _So good, so fucking_ **_kind_** _of him, to drop in. To come and watch the freak lick his wounds and hide away in his castle._ Blinding rage.

 _"Who the fuck do you think you are?"_ When Clark's head jerks back in surprise, Bruce leans forward. Heart hammering in his chest, terror seizing him up, he growls in Clark's face.

"You think I need you looking in on me? Or maybe you think I need coffee from fucking _Guam_ in my time of need! Fuck you."

"Okay," Clark says quietly, voice level. "That hurt. Which you wanted." His eyes scan Bruce's face. "You feel better?"

"Goddammit—"

"I'm parked out back. Gonna get my bags now. You can yell at me in the morning." His frown deepens. “ _After_ you get some sleep.”

“I didn’t _invite you—"_

“Or before. Before is good too, I guess—“

“I swear to God, Kent—“

"No," Clark says with a slight downward turn of his mouth. "You didn’t invite me to come here. To stay. I guess I can understand why. Alfred did." With a sigh, he raises both hands in a peacekeeping gesture. “Look— it’s your house, Bruce. You want me to go, I’ll go. If it’s—“ He breaks off to push his obnoxiously unnecessary glasses up the bridge of his nose in an irritatingly human manner.

“If it’s _me_ personally, being in the house, well.” Clark sighs. “You got plenty of outbuildings on property. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve slept in the hay.”

Alfred invited him. Clark drove. These facts are in the forefront of Bruce’s mind. Because if Clark _drove,_ then he must have been here only minutes ago— he must have heard, must have _seen—_

He must also have chosen not to intervene. To make the right call, letting Alfred do the talking. Letting Alfred _handle_ Bruce. Clark drove here, with his luggage, for what was obviously an extended stay, when he could just have easily have flown, because _Alfred asked him to._

That of all things, is what stops the pounding red flaring behind Bruce’s eyes.

“What did you say?” he asks quietly.

“It…Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve slept in hay?” Clark hazards.

Bruce stares at him.

“Are you offering to sleep in my _stable_?”

Cocking his head, Clark shrugs. “I was thinking a barn, but stable… fine. Yes.”

“The stable hasn’t been re-tacked and outfitted in…” He waves a hand in the direction of the south field. “Going on fifteen years?”

Clark’s bravado and his smile creak a bit. “Not a problem.”

_Because I don’t want you in the house._

Because Bruce doesn’t _need_ Superman…

Because he isn’t a victim…

Because…

 _He’d sleep in my fucking barn if it was the closest I would let him get._ Because _Bruce asked it._

“No,” he hears himself say. The room swims back into focus. He repeats it. “No. What, you’d spend the night in a derelict stable, just to soothe my pride?”

“Well I—“

“It’s made of sterner stuff than that, Clark.” Tiredly, Bruce wishes the conversation were over, wishes he could move from his tensed posture, frozen facing Clark because he can’t turn his back, can’t show his side, can’t—

“Take one of the first floor guest rooms—” He gestures to the door stiffly with his still-raised hand. “Alfred will show you.”

“Can I— Alright,” Clark says after a moment they spend staring at each other. His eyes dim. “I’ll just go find him then. Good night, Bruce.”

“Good _night._ ”

**Author's Note:**

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